


Cold Winds; Warm Hands

by theorchardofbones



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 35!Gladio, 55!Cor, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, listen older gladio and silver fox cor is good shit™, oh and... sorry about the cockblock ;), oh noes it's so cold and cor's hands are so warm, what ever will we dooooo?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-21 06:35:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17038589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theorchardofbones/pseuds/theorchardofbones
Summary: It wassupposedto be a routine training exercise, deep in the heart of the snow-kissed forests of Niflheim... until Gladiolus and Cor got lost.Now, stuck in a cabin with barely enough firewood to last the night, they'll have to find creative methods of keeping warm...





	Cold Winds; Warm Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tsukibeam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsukibeam/gifts).



> I was so eager to post this late at night that I never really thought to add any sort of note!
> 
> Tsukibeam — I've never written this pairing before, but I hope I've done them justice! I wanted to write something true to the spirit of how I see these two interacting, while still being shippy... and when the idea popped into my head, suddenly I was filling another prompt for you!
> 
> I hope you enjoy <3

‘So what’s the verdict on this year’s recruits, Marshal?’ Gladio says. ‘Any keepers?’

From his spot in front of the wood burning stove, Cor hands the bottle back to Gladio. The liquid within tastes like a mixture of lighter fluid and cat piss, but that hasn’t stopped either of them.

‘Out of twelve recruits,’ Cor says, deadpan, ‘zero of them got lost. I’d say they’re doing better than either of us.’

It takes a second for Gladio to realise the guy is joking; it’s still weird as  _ shit _ to hear Cor the Immortal cracking funnies, especially snowed in at some abandoned log cabin, balls-deep in a Niflian winter as they are.

Gladio snorts.

‘Yeah,’ he says, touching the brim of the bottle to his lips. ‘You got me there.’

As Solstices go, this one has been… interesting, to put it mildly. It’d been enough of a nuisance to be sent deep into the Niflian wilderness for a training exercise at this time of year — without families of their own to visit at this time of year, Gladio, Cor, and a reluctant Monica had wound up with the dubious privilege of leading the excursion. To get  _ lost _ out in the middle of nowhere, with no cell reception and a busted transponder, was just the icing on the shit-cake.

They’re lucky this isn’t wartime; if they weren’t currently enjoying a years-long piece with the newly-established Niflheim Republic, they’d probably be dead in the water.

‘You think Monica’ll figure out what happened?’ he asks, handing the bottle back.

Cor sighs — more a terse exhalation than anything. The guy’s so  _ tense _ all the godsdamned time; booze only seems to bring it out all the more.

‘I’m sure she’s back at the lodge right now, laughing at us over a glass of mulled wine.’

Another joke, Gladio realises belatedly.

The cabin’s moth-eaten and filled with cobwebs, and they only have enough fuel to keep a small fire burning in the stove — enough to melt the snow for drinking water, and to warm their hands, and little else.

‘Probably right,’ Gladio replies. ‘If we’re lucky, she’ll take pity on us and send a search party before we’re popsicles.’

Cor shoots him a look that says their prospects aren’t very good. They both know Monica well, and even though she’s a fair woman, she has a twisted sense of humour. That, and she’s been riding both their asses since they set down on Niflian soil.

The Marshal lifts the bottle, raising it in a toast.

‘To making the best of a terrible situation,’ he says, taking a swig before handing the liquor back over.

Gladio drinks deeply from it, cat piss taste and all; cold and drunk is better than just  _ cold, _ after all.

‘Hungry?’ Gladio says, pushing himself to his feet. ‘Got some protein packs, or there’s a jar of that pickled shit the Niffs eat if you’re feelin’ adventurous.’

‘I’ll pass,’ Cor replies smoothly.

It’s good for Gladio to stretch his legs, at least, even if he can make the length of the cabin in just a few strides. He investigates the cupboards in the kitchen again for good measure, finding only the aforementioned jar of pickled fish and a box of cereal so old the colours are faded. Once he’s done, he strides to the other side of the cabin and pulls the lace curtain of the door across to peer out the window into the night.

This deep in the Niflian forest, there’s not much to see — a little of the moonlight breaks through the tree cover, turning the pines to silver and making the snow shine eerily. Out on the road with the guys, it would’ve been the perfect night to share ghost stories to kill some time. Somehow, he doesn’t think Cor’s the type to spin tall tales around the campfire.

A decade earlier, the two of them had whiled away the hours talking strategy before he faced off against Gilgamesh; Cor had helped him ready himself — to hone both body and mind — to take on the legendary Blademaster in a bid to prove himself worthy as the future king’s shield.

Not much strategy to talk about now, when the world’s at peace.

‘We should turn in soon,’ Cor says. ‘Come dawn, we’ll make tracks.’

It’s still early, but the Marshal has a point; they’ll need their energy if they hope to make it back to town, with no maps or radios to help them.

Gladio stretches weary arms above his head as he turns from the door. The cabin’s falling apart, and they had to board up one of the windows to keep out the bitter north wind, but it’s not so bad as makeshift lodgings go — although it’s chilly away from the scant warmth of the stove, and Gladio finds himself retreating to it before long.

They have their bedrolls, and army-grade sleeping bags — good enough to weather them through the worst of the chill.

Still gonna be a long night.

* * *

Gladio wakes to the sight of Cor kneeling over him, one hand braced on his shoulder and his blue eyes dark with worry even in the wan light of the moon.

‘Wake up,’ Cor says gruffly.

For just a moment, Gladio forgets where they are — forgets they’ve enjoyed a decade of peace, forgets that the worst the Crownsguard has to  _ guard _ against these days is overzealous reporters. His instincts kick in and adrenaline floods through his veins, but his body is slow and sluggish to respond, like it belongs to somebody else.

‘We under attack?’ he says, and his voice comes out all hoarse and slurred.

Cor shakes his head.

‘Fire went out,’ he says. ‘It’s freezing. Need to get warm.’

A little listless, Gladio lies there and watches as the Marshal shuffles closer in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. Watches him zip it all the way down, then tab open the zipper on Gladio’s. They’re standard-issue gear — they attach together in a pinch, a feature with the Marshal takes advantage of now, effectively sealing the pair of them in.

The effect of Cor’s warmth is immediate; even more so as he nestles in close, his breath puffing out against Gladio’s throat.

Weight drags at Gladio’s eyelids. He feels safer, now that the adrenaline has faded; safe and cosy and warm. He knows he should stay awake — at least until he’s sure he’s not under hypothermia — but the pull of sleep is so intoxicating…

‘Gladiolus.’

Cor’s voice is clipped, commanding. He’s the Marshal right now — leader of the Crownsguard, Gladio’s superior officer.

‘Stay awake,’ Cor says.

Gladio grumbles. He’s  _ trying _ to.

‘I know,’ he mutters, even as another wave of exhaustion washes over him.

_ ‘Gladio.’ _

This time, Cor’s tone brooks no argument. This is a legit, straight-from-the-man-himself order, and if Gladio disobeys it he’s going to be in a  _ world _ of shit when they get home.

Gladio closes his eyes, hard, then forces them wide open. The room seems foggy at the edges, and Cor swims in front of him; Gladio lifts the hand not currently pinned underneath him and slaps at his own cheeks in a bid to rouse himself.

Cor’s a little crisper to look at now. That’s probably a good sign.

‘Talk to me,’ Cor says. ‘Tell me about something.’

Bemused, Gladio lifts an eyebrow.

‘Tell you about  _ what?’ _

Cor sighs.

‘I don’t know,’ he retorts. ‘A book you’re reading. A girl you’re seeing. Just keep talking.’

Gladio can’t help but snort. A girl he’s seeing? Really?

‘Marshal,’ he says dryly. ‘You know better’n anybody how hard it is to make time for a relationship. That’s why you’re here right now, instead of Dustin, or Ignis.’

‘I’m  _ here _ because His Majesty’s sworn shield is terrible at reading maps,’ Cor deadpans.

_ ‘Hey.’ _

Another joke, Gladio realises, as the corner of Cor’s mouth twists into a smirk. That brings the count up to, what, three now?

‘Permission to speak freely, sir?’ he asks.

Cor considers him for a moment. His blue eyes narrow; after a pause, he nods his head.

‘You’re not the hardass you make yourself out to be,’ Gladio says.

Cor levels him with a glare, opening his mouth with a reprimand, but before he gets far enough Gladio cuts him off.

‘You said keep talkin’, sir.’

This seems to catch the Marshal genuinely off guard; for a second, Gladio thinks the guy’s about to slap him with a court martial, but instead he gives a gruff laugh and shakes his head.

‘You’ve got a point, soldier,’ he says.

It was a decade ago that Gladio finally learned the truth of the story behind Cor’s epithet of  _ the Immortal. _ The Marshal had told him about his own time at the Tempering Grounds, while Gladio had prepared for his trials; had filled in the gaps in the story which passed like a virus from person to person over the years, each teller embellishing it a little along the way.

Cor  _ had _ survived his skirmish with the Blademaster, that part was true. The reality of it was that he almost hadn’t made it out alive. If he hadn’t cleaved one of Gilgamesh’s arms, the Blademaster might never have shown him mercy and let him live.

Gladio knows that the truth of the story is Cor’s shame; to him, however, it shows a more human side to the Marshal.

A yawn punctuates Gladio’s thoughts. He can feel his eyes growing heavy again.

‘Shiva’s tits,’ he mutters. ‘It’s fuckin’  _ cold.’ _

He sees a wry smile twitch at Cor’s lips.

‘I believe that was the idea behind this training exercise,’ he says. ‘Adverse conditions, to see the recruits’ true mettle.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Gladio says, rolling his eyes. ‘Next time, make it Ravatogh. Take lava over the snow any day.’

This earns a chuckle from Cor. As the sound dies down, they lapse into silence.

‘Awright,’ Gladio mutters. ‘Need to go hit the head.’

‘Charming,’ Cor retorts.

It takes a little wriggling to access the zipper and pull it open; Gladio doesn’t dwell outside the sleeping bag for long before shoving on another layer of clothing and trudging toward the exit.

As soon as he cracks the door open, the wind rushes through, bitter and unrelenting. He slips through and slams it shut behind him. He picks a spot behind a tree a few feet from the cabin and opens up, relieving himself as fast as humanly possible.

When he gets back inside, Cor’s got their torches on, casting the cabin in a blue-white glow. He’s even managed to stoke some life back into the fire — although the embers look like they don’t have long left in them. Gladio shrugs off his outermost layer before shrouding himself in his sleeping bag once more.

‘If you’re lucid enough,’ Cor says, flicking a glance in his direction, ‘it should be safe to get some sleep. Sun’ll be up in a couple hours.’

Gladio gives a nod. 

‘No arguments from me.’

They seal themselves in together again, with the dying warmth of the stove by their heads. Now that Gladio’s actually  _ supposed _ to sleep, he’s wide awake.

He’s slept this close to his fellow soldiers before, of course — bunked top and tail plenty of times, no sweat. It’s different to be huddled up to your superior officer for warmth, though, especially when said superior is Cor the Immortal.

He tries not to think too long and hard about it; tries to imagine the heat of Cor’s body is just like the warmth of a fire.

‘Gladiolus,’ Cor says primly. ‘You’re tense. You need to loosen up if you want to conserve body heat.’

Shit.

‘Uh, right,’ Gladio mutters. ‘Sorry.’

That the Marshal can feel the tension in his muscles says they’re more than close enough. With a huff, Gladio shifts around in the sleeping bag and turns onto his other side with his back to Cor.

It’s colder this way ‘round; Gladio gives an involuntary shiver and draws his knees up towards his torso as best he can within the confines of the bedding.

‘Maybe we should—’ Cor says softly, cutting off. ‘Like this…’

Gladio opens his mouth to question the Marshal’s words, but before he gets that far he feels a heavy arm drape over his side, feels Cor press up behind him, curving around the shape of him.

It’s warmer, that’s for sure. Maybe if Gladio closes his ears off to the sound of Cor’s breathing, the whole thing’ll be less weird.

Less weird than spooning with Cor the Immortal. Which is what he’s currently doing.

And he’s the  _ little _ spoon.

‘Muh…’ he blurts, sounding like a thrice damned idiot. He clears his throat awkwardly, makes another attempt: ‘Maybe…’

‘Yes?’ Cor prompts, patient as ever.

Gladio clears his throat again. He considers asking Cor to trade positions, but somehow being the big spoon doesn’t seem any less awkward.

‘Maybe we could, uh… Y’know. Back-to-back.’

This earns him a snort of derision from Cor.

‘The whole point is to get warm, soldier,’ he states. ‘So, unless you have better ideas.’

Gladio shakes his head.

‘Nope,’ he replies. ‘It’s fine.’

It’s not, but what’s the difference? He’s thirty-five years old and he’s acting like a teenager.

Then again, it doesn’t seem all that long ago that he was the awestruck twenty-something following Cor into the Tempering Grounds, taking his childhood hero’s advice and learning from his mistakes. He supposes there’s still a little part of him that hero-worships Cor even now, after years of working closely together in the Crownsguard.

Gladio feels uncomfortable in his skin, like he’s forgotten how to be in his body. He shifts a little more onto his side, then tilts slightly backward — but that just brings him closer to Cor. With a gruff, mumbled apology, he twists so that he’s curled to his left, his right hand a pillow for his cheek.

Cor moves then, his leg brushing Gladio’s ass, and the movement is so unexpected that Gladio nearly jumps out of his skin.

‘Gladiolus.’

Cor’s voice fits gruffly around the shape of his name.

‘Is this making you uncomfortable?’ Cor asks.

‘A little,’ Gladio admits. Godsdamn it all, but his cheeks are hot with embarrassment. ‘Maybe if you could. Take your, uh. Your arm.’

As if as an afterthought, Cor removes his arm from around Gladio’s middle — though not before brushing the inside of his thigh along the way. It shouldn’t mean anything, but it’s been so long since — since anybody… 

Where Cor’s breath skirts against the back of his neck, it’s at once warm enough to chase away the chill night air, and yet Gladio still feels his skin prickling at his neck.

The two of them are rigid now, like they’re overly aware of how close they are. Even with Cor lying ramrod straight behind him, Gladio can feel the shape of him against his ass. He tries with every fibre of his being to keep still, but with every breath either of them takes, Cor brushes lightly against him.

Hell of a time for the Marshal to pitch a tent, Gladio thinks.

‘Are you…’ Cor murmurs.

Gladio waits through the silence, listening for the sound of Cor’s voice over the muffled roar of the wind outside — over the gush of his pulse in his ears.

He registers the weight of Cor’s hand coming to rest on his hip; it’s solid and grounding, and yet it makes him lightheaded all at once.

‘Are you warm enough?’ Cor asks. ‘Because I could…’

His fingers nudge downwards a little, a suggestion. He feels Cor’s…  _ that, _ pressing more insistently against his backside. Worse, his body’s starting to wake up in response, too.

He’s warm enough as it is, probably. But there’s that ache, and it’s not like it’d be the first time two soldiers worked off some tension together on a bedroll.

Gladio gives a grunt by way of response; in turn, he feels Cor’s hand creep downward, seeking him out. When he twitches to life under Cor’s touch, he silently curses himself — and yet he angles himself toward the contact, pushing his hips against Cor’s hand.

Cor’s almost slow and lazy about it, like he’s expecting Gladio to tell him to stop at any moment. It’s like an itch only barely getting scratched, and it isn’t long before Gladio shoves his hand downward to cover Cor’s, urging him along.

Behind him, the Marshal gives a soft gasp in response. Where his hips are flush with Gladio’s ass, his cock seems to throb.

‘We can stop,’ Cor blurts, as if it’s not too late for second-guessing.

‘All due respect, Marshal,’ Gladio replies, ‘but shut up.’

Cor chuckles at his ear, bassy and warm.

Once Gladio’s got him working at a suitable pace, he slips his hand back to grip Cor’s thigh and uses it for traction as he works his ass experimentally against Cor’s crotch. When the Marshal doesn’t push him away, he rolls his backside against him again, drawing a sharp breath from Cor’s lips.

That little sound has Gladio’s dick aching like he hasn’t been touched in centuries, and suddenly the contact through the layers of his tactical gear isn’t enough. He knocks Cor’s hand out of the way, trembling as he goes, and fumbles to get his pants open, yanking them down past his hips.

Cor’s very still beside him; for a moment Gladio wonders if he’s taken it too far. After a pause, Cor’s hand slips under the band of his boxer-briefs and grabs him bare. The warmth of his palm might just be the closest thing to a slice of heaven, out here in the Niflian winter.

He hears the sound of Cor’s zipper, and there’s a little shuffling around; he feels Cor’s hand knock him as he picks up a rhythm on his own dick, and for a second the curiosity is too much.

Hesitating, Gladio moves his hand back behind him, slipping it under Cor’s arm. The Marshal’s cock is hot and ready where he’s slipped it out through the slot in his boxers, and Gladio realises with a rush of shame — and surprise — that he’s pretty fucking  _ big. _

Figures. The guy’s taller than Gladio.

‘Gonna—’ Gladio blurts, cutting off with a sharp breath as Cor thumbs over the head of his dick. ‘Just gimme a sec…’

Gladio slips his hand free, uses it to tug his boxer-briefs down. He’s about to move to grab Cor’s dick again, but without prompting he feels the Marshal guide it downwards — not to fuck him, but to push it between his thighs.

‘You done this before, Marshal?’ Gladio asks wryly.

Cor’s voice is hoarse, unamused: ‘What happens on tour stays on tour.’

It’s an adage Gladio’s more than happy to adhere to as he parts his legs a little to give Cor room; gripping Cor’s thigh, he tugs on it by way of encouragement.

Where Cor grips his cock, he seems to have forgotten it in the interim as he picks up a slow rhythm of easing himself between Gladio’s thighs. His breath is choppy, like he’s not entirely there; when Gladio covers Cor’s hand on his dick and urges it onward, he feels the Marshal drop his forehead against his shoulder.

It’d be better with lube, Gladio thinks, as Cor slowly fucks himself between his thighs — but he’s not really complaining as the Marshal’s hand tends to him in turn, calloused thumb periodically sweeping across his slit to slick his fingers up with pre-cum.

Gladio works himself backwards till he feels his ass run flush with Cor’s hips; feels Cor twitch between his legs, the muscles of his thighs working with his thrusts.

It ain’t pretty, and Gladio has no doubts that they’ll regret this come sun-up. And yet he keeps going, grinding his ass back against the Marshal behind him.

Cor hurries his fist along where he grips him, Gladio’s hand still covering it. It won’t be long, Gladio figures, and dimly he registers that there’ll be a hell of a mess to clean up from the inside of the sleeping bag, but that’s a problem for the morning.

A sharp sound cuts through the air outside — the bark of a wild animal, maybe. Instinct kicks in, and even though it’s been ten years since the dawn put an end to Eos’s daemon infestation once and for all, he’s already steeling himself for trouble as he jerks upright, untangling himself from Cor as he goes.

The two of them sit and listen, the cacophony of their breaths almost too loud to hear over as they try to steady themselves. There’s no repeat of the sound, but Gladio’s still on edge; he’s not hard any more, his heart pumping in anticipation of combat.

‘Gonna go check it out,’ he says.

Cor unzips the sleeping bags, and Gladio yanks his pants up as he pulls himself to his feet. Summoning a sword to his hand, he treads silently across the floorboards towards the window, edging the lace curtain carefully open…

A face appears at the window, and it’s everything he can do not to bellow in surprise.

‘Who goes there?’ the man outside says.

Through the ice-kissed panes of glass, Gladio sees him raise a shotgun, waving it in warning.

‘Uh, Cor,’ Gladio says. ‘Maybe now’s a good time to get your ass over here.’

* * *

‘He was gonna  _ shoot  _ you?’

If the recruits weren’t all so young, so bright-eyed and eager, Gladio might be pissed at being mocked. He shoots a glance over at Cor, pleading for help, but the Marshal merely shrugs in amusement where he stands with arms folded across his chest.

‘He said the place’d been empty for years,’ Gladio says. ‘Guess he thought we were intruders or somethin’.’

‘Uh, you kinda were,’ one of the recruits says, earning a chorus of laughter from his fellows.

He’s a plucky one — a little rough around the edges, but he shows promise. He reminds Gladio a little of Prompto.

‘All’s well that ends well,’ Monica interjects, pushing off from where she stands by the grand fireplace in the common room of the lodge. ‘Now, come on. There’ll be time enough for reminiscing when we’re on the ship.’

She shoos everybody along, and with some reluctance the recruits begin to file out of the room and up the stairs to begin the process of packing.

She crosses the common room, stopping by the bottom of the stairs and glancing back over her shoulder; her eyes are on Cor, her expression unfathomable to Gladio.

‘Seems that kindly soul arrived just in the nick of time,’ she says. Gladio thinks there’s a hint of amusement in her voice.

‘Yeah,’ Cor replies. ‘Lucky us.’

Gladio watches her go, following her path up the stairs. She pauses at the top, shaking her head before turning the corner and disappearing from view.

‘What was  _ that _ about?’ Gladio asks, raising an eyebrow.

For the second time this trip, the Marshal’s lost for words.

Slowly, with weary bones, Gladio pushes himself up from his seat on the couch. He’s about as reluctant as the recruits to go pack, but he’s looking forward to the warm bed waiting for him at home, at least.

‘Wait.’

He tenses, looking over at Cor; the Marshal’s arms are still folded over his chest, his jaw tensing slightly as he seems to muddle over whatever it is that he means to say.

‘About what happened—’ he begins, but Gladio cuts him off with a shake of his head.

‘What happens on tour, stays on tour,’ Gladio replies, ‘right? Don’t sweat it, Marshal.’

Cor nods; something like relief seems to flash across his face. 

‘Right,’ Cor says.

Still, even as Gladio turns for the stairs once more, he feels his skin prickle as he remembers the weight of Cor’s hand on him, the heat of his cock between his thighs. Before Gladio knows it, he’s drawn to a halt at the bottom of the steps, his hand gripping the post so tightly his knuckles are white.

‘Probably got time to hit the showers before we leave, huh?’ he says.

He looks over his shoulder at Cor; the Marshal watches him impassively.

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ Cor says.

Gladio nods. Feels a lump of uncertainty rise in his throat in anticipation of what he’s about to say; swallows it down, and says it anyway.

‘So, uh,’ he says. ‘The shower in my room is on the fritz. You think I could use yours?’

He sees Cor look at him in bemusement, like the request has flown over his head. Slowly, inevitably, understanding seems to dawn over the Marshal’s face; Cor shifts just slightly on his feet, just enough to let his cool exterior slip for a second and show what’s underneath.

‘Be my guest,’ Cor says.

With a nod, Gladio turns back to the stairs, taking them easily with his long strides. When he pauses halfway up to look behind him, Cor has already moved from his perch and follows close behind, the faintest smile tugging at his lips.


End file.
